Preacher's Daughter

It seems like my dad always waited until nightfall to realize that he’d left his Bible on the podium at church. I enjoyed having a minister for a father, except at that moment in time. He’d casually lift his eyes from a bedtime snack and say, “Why don’t you run down to the church, Sis, and get my Bible for me?” I’d roll my eyes and groan, “Oh, Dad.” The idea of going into a church at night – by myself – just to fetch his Bible was not my idea of fun. It sounded more like a good way to see a ghost or something. If I hesitated further, Dad would smile and add, “If you do it, I’ll let you be my daughter.” After more eye-rolling, I’d pull myself out of the chair and trudge down the road to a darkened Presbyterian church and let myself inside.

Suddenly, I would shift gears, dashing full speed through the narthex and frantically feel along the far wall for light switches, the whole time praying, “Please, no angels. Please, no angels.” Then, I’d run like a maniac to the platform, now praying that the Bible would be right where Dad had indicated so that I would lose no time to a search effort, and finally, Bible in hand, I’d run back down the aisle, hitting the light switch in one fluid motion, as I passed through the narthex and out the church doors. I would barely drop the pace as I headed for home.
Now that I’m older some things have changed. For starters, I’m Catholic now. If you look closely at my conversion, it’s almost like Our Heavenly Father asked me to do the same thing my earthly father used to ask of me.

Sis, I want you to walk down this road where you’ll find my Word Made Flesh. At that point, I probably rolled my eyes a bit. I know I asked the Lord, Why me? Why not ask my sister or brother? Or start with my husband, at least. The idea of becoming Catholic wasn’t an easy road to go down alone.

Then, the Lord smiled and said, “I’ll let you be my daughter.” This time it was no joking matter. I reminded Him that I would probably make mistakes and look like an idiot sometimes as I fumble for the lights. But I want to please You, Lord. I want to follow You, wherever the journey leads me.

Conversion is like that.

The Father sends us on a mission. Sometimes fear of the unknown makes us want to say no, but we submit anyway. We dash in and dash out, seeking the first light switch we find, hoping to make it through the journey without experiencing anything that is too life-altering, when the way of real obedience is to walk at the Lord’s pace, even if it is through the dark night.

Preacher's Daughter

Blessed Feast of the Holy Family

December 28, 2003, fell on a Sunday, just like today.

I woke up that morning, and my father was alive. By evening, he was gone. In a recent post, I shared the story of my loss and how it became the catalyst for a conversion that would take place over the course of the next 18 months.

I began to see things in the Catholic faith that intrigued me. The saints. The prayer life of the contemplatives. The teaching on suffering. The following June, I tried to find one of my father's friends, a priest on the ministerial board in town. I wanted to ask him a few questions. I had to understand what was happening to me.

Father Larry Brunette was no longer at the Catholic parish in the town where my father had been a Presbyterian pastor. After some research, I tracked him down at Holy Family parish in Granite City, Illinois. His voice was so calming, so encouraging. He told me how much he had thought of my father, how sorry he was for my loss. But the thing that would carry me through the pain was what he said next. All my questions came down to what I believed Jesus was saying in the Gospel of John chapter 6, he said. Then he suggested I read a book by Dr. Scott Hahn, a former Presbyterian pastor who had become Catholic (see interview on youtube - link below). I didn't know that ever happened! Presbyterian pastors, like dad, becoming Catholic? I felt a freedom, a great relief. Maybe Dad would understand this crazy thing that was happening to me. Maybe he was beyond the veil actually helping me to find my way. (By the way, there are actually about 1000 Protestant pastors who have made the journey into the Catholic Church in recent years. It's not that uncommon after all!)

Last summer, on June 29, 2008, I was invited to share my conversion story with a parish for the first time. There was joy that evening. My sadness and loss had transitioned into amazing joy. The name of the parish? Holy Family in Lawton, Oklahoma.

Yes, there is something about the Holy Family and it didn't just begin five years ago. It began over two thousand years ago . . . and it continues to change lives today.

Blessed Feast of the Holy Family!

Blessed Feast of the Holy Family